


Princetown: a Holmesian encounter on Dartmoor

by Hypatia_66



Series: An UNCLE Gazetteer [16]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: ABC Challenge, Book: The Hound of the Baskervilles, Community: section7mfu, Gen, Original Character(s), Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-26 00:20:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14988686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: LJ ABC Affair II. Cities A-Z. Prompt P.Illya wants to follow in Sherlock Holmes's footsteps across Dartmoor.





	Princetown: a Holmesian encounter on Dartmoor

The mission in London had taken them to Exeter where they intercepted the Thrush agent before he could either pass on the information or kill the hostage. Mr Waverly had congratulated them and offered a couple of days off. So, metaphorically dusting his hands, Napoleon sat back in the bar with his Scotch and said, “So, how about Plymouth tomorrow, then?”

“How about it?”

“I mean, it’s November, we could still go and see where the Mayflower set off from – like I suggested a while back.”

“I doubt whether there’s anything to see – you could be very disappointed.”

“We could take in Dartmouth as well, then. You said it was pretty.”

Illya opened the map he had with foresight acquired and looked at the route. “Let’s go across Dartmoor,” he said, “I'd like to see the places that inspired the Hound of the Baskervilles. It might be fun.” He looked up expectantly. Napoleon looked askance. Fun? but if it would please his partner, why not?

“All right. We’ll start early tomorrow.”

It wasn’t difficult to find one of the possible sites for Sherlock Holmes’ hideout – an ancient hut circle at Grimspound in the remains of a Bronze Age village. Napoleon did his best to look interested but was glad to return to the warmth of the car.

Illya was driving: the car had manual transmission, the roads in Devon were narrow and sometimes sunk between high banks which made passing other vehicles a hair-raising business. Up on the moor, however, there was no other traffic and the road was open on both sides. But as they returned to the main road, they saw a bank of fog rolling toward them, blanketing the moor and blotting out the sun.

“Is this where we hear the howl of a gigantic hound?” inquired Napoleon.

“Of course not, it didn’t exist except in Conan Doyle’s imagination,” said Illya, mock seriously. “But if we turn south at the crossroads we might be able to see the great Grimpen Mire – or its real equivalent.”

“We can’t see _anything_ at the moment, Illya, and I’m not taking risks with a real bog, whatever it’s called.”

“It’s called Fox Mire and maybe the fog will lift.”

They almost passed the signpost in the fog, but it gleamed white and they stopped just beyond it. Napoleon got out reluctantly and went back to read it. He observed as he did so, that it wasn’t a crossroads but two hairpins joining either end of a short straight stretch. There was another signpost further on. Walking up to it and round it, he became aware of a slight sound behind him. Something jabbed him in the back and a voice said, “That your car?”

“Who’s asking?” said Napoleon.

“Is it?”

“Well, yes, it is. Why?”

“I want to go to Plymouth. You can take me there.”

“Well, as it happens that’s just where I'm going – if you don’t mind a bit of a detour.”

“Shut up and get to the car. No detours.”

Illya had already observed through the fog that some kind of encounter was taking place, and none too friendly by the look of it. Ducking his head, therefore, he scrambled over the gear stick, crawled out of the other side of the car and lay flat. As the two men approached, he could hear Napoleon talking chattily about his vacation and where he had been, thereby annoying the hell out of the man behind him.

“Right – enough of that bloody twaddle. I’m going to lie down in the back and you’re going to drive me through Princetown, not stopping, and on to Plymouth.”

“Oh, and I was hoping to take a look at the famous prison. Do you know it?”

“Yes, damn' well. Shut up and open that rear door.”

Illya had slithered backwards round the car and, as Napoleon opened the rear door for his captor, he rose silently out of the fog and dealt the man a rabbit punch which knocked him out.

“Thanks, partner. Nice work. He should have chosen his victim more carefully.”

“Yes, a bit unfair to deceive him like that.” Brushing himself down, Illya pulled his gun from his ankle holster and fired a sleep dart into the man for good measure. “That should keep him quiet till we take him back where he belongs,” he said.

Princetown wasn’t far and the prison was pretty obvious even in the fog. Arriving at the prison gates, they unloaded and delivered the escaped prisoner to surprised officers who hadn’t yet realised he was missing. “He might need an aspirin when he wakes up,” they warned them. In gratitude they were offered and accepted a cup of tea and a digestive biscuit and a tour of part of the prison – a not entirely enjoyable experience. “I don’t blame him for wanting to get away,” said Napoleon when they were back in the car. The fog had now lifted and the sun shone on the attractions of Princetown. “What happened to the prisoner in the Hound of the Baskervilles? Was he the villain?”

“No. The hound killed him. The villain died in the Grimpen Mire. That’s where we’re going next, if I can find the right turning.”

It wasn’t a turning anyone could miss but it was an unprepossessing road. The November sunshine caught the last of the heather and then they saw in the distance glittering streams and pools of water, brilliant green tussocks and reeds lying in a shallow amphitheatre on the moor. “There’s a path across it somewhere,” said Illya.

“Illya, it’s November not high summer. And it’ll be dark soon. Onwards, partner, onwards!”

ooo0000ooo


End file.
